


Knife Ears

by alphahelices



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphahelices/pseuds/alphahelices
Summary: When Zevran stopped asking for alienage stories, Tabris assumed it was to spare her feelings.





	Knife Ears

                The first time Tabris met Zevran, he was at the end of Alistair’s sword. Hunched in the mud in the depths of the forest, he looked up at his interrogators with little concern in his eyes. He sat back on his heels and pleaded disinterestedly for his own life, shed secrets like an old skin, cracked jokes with the tip of a blade against his throat. When Alistair looked to her for direction, Zevran turned an eye to her as well, and smiled endearingly.

                There was no question in anyone’s mind that he should die. He was an assassin, sent to kill them, who had every reason to try again if given the chance. But while he calmly spilled every detail of his contract, looking entirely unconcerned as to whether he would be slain like every other assassin, Tabris could only see his ears. She saw only another elf, forced into the dirt, by the word and the steel of her human companions. In him she saw every young elf in the alienage beaten down by guards for exaggerated crimes. She looked at her friends and imagined them thinking of him only as another criminal, another knife-ear to be dealt with.

                Maybe that was why she didn’t kill him then.

                Her companions were incredulous when she agreed to take him with them. She only said it could be useful to have a trained assassin along. They couldn’t argue with that, but it didn’t stop them from trying. Alistair sheathed his sword with reluctant obedience, and Zevran began to push himself to his feet. Tabris did not extend a hand to help, and instead continued down the path without looking back.

                At camp that night, she made him take first watch with her. The two sat across the fire from each other in silence as darkness fell. She listened to the sounds of her companions feigning sleep in their tents, knowing every one of them was listening in, waiting for any sound to indicate that they were right not to trust the assassin.

                “What was it like in your alienage?” Zevran’s voice startled her. She looked up at him questioningly; he stared back.

                “Terrible,” she said eventually, dismissively. He held her gaze, waiting. No one else had expected a more detailed answer from her on the subject, and she had no idea what to say until she found the words already streaming from her mouth. She told him of the guards and their open brutality, the fear of humans anytime she passed through the gates into the city, the cramped streets and overflowing homes and underfilled stomachs. He listened to all of it, looking genuinely interested.

                When she finished, there was silence again, more comfortable this time. The night was getting colder and the two elves scooted a little closer to the fire, a little closer to each other. After a pause, Tabris asked quietly about Antiva City. Zevran laughed immediately.

                “Warden, it is every bit as terrible as your alienage,” he stated, smiling openly. “The streets are full of pickpockets, it is always raining and damp, and many people are as poor and starving as the elves of Ferelden. You are lucky to be purchased by the Crows, because then at least someone cares to keep you alive, to make good on their investment.” Still he smiled, staring wistfully into the fire now.

                “You miss it?”

                “Absolutely. The fine leather, the dirty women, the thrill of danger in the streets.” He sighed, again meeting her eyes. “It is terrible and I would hardly wish for my worst enemy to have to grow up there. But it is home, and I miss it still.”

                And there it was, the feeling Tabris had been struggling with since leaving for Ostagar. She hated everything about the alienage, was unimaginably pleased to have made it out. But she still longed to go home. She missed her cold little home and her father’s meager feasts. Her other companions would never understand; they all seemed unquestionably happy to have escaped their old lives. In Zevran, however, she had found someone who understood what it was to be an elf in a human land.

                Catching her staring, he winked at her from across the flames. The next night on watch, she told him about her cousins, and he listened to every word.

 

* * *

 

           

     They were leaving the city of Haven when Tabris openly lamented her choice in weaponry. She’d grown up favoring a longbow, but in the tight quarters of the cult of Andraste’s chantry it had been more of a hindrance than a help. Her mother had fought with daggers and had always tried to teach her, but Tabris was now regretting not paying more attention in lessons. She’d switched to daggers later in the confined tunnels in the mountains, but found her skills lacking.

                “If you like, warden, we could practice together,” Zevran was quick to offer.

                They started lessons that night, a short distance from the camp. Alistair, on watch, stood as close to the perimeter of the camp as he could, imagining he would hear if Zevran were to try and fulfill his old contracts. When the two came back a short time later, looking tired but pleased, he wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not.

                Alistair called her aside the next day as they traveled.

                “I’m wondering something,” he asked, with forced lightness, as if it had just popped into his head. She looked up at him with a small, encouraging smile. “I’d like to know your thoughts about some of our traveling companions.”

                “Of course,” she agreed. He asked her opinions on Leliana, Morrigan, Sten, going on until coincidentally ending with Zevran.

                “You can’t trust him, can you? Do you believe his so-called vow?” In that instant, Tabris knew this was the question he had been meaning to ask all along.

                “I do, actually,” she said succinctly, a hint of hostility in her voice.

                “Why? That’s a…lot of trust to put in someone who tried to kill you.” He was backtracking now, trying to turn the conversation back to jokes and lightheartedness, knowing he’d crossed some line. Tabris heaved a sigh and let the tension in her shoulders go.

                “I’m willing to give him a second chance.” She left it at that, half expecting him to tell her she was being ridiculous, to jump down her throat again like he had after she’d killed Connor in Redcliffe. Instead, he frowned thoughtfully.

                “If you are, then maybe I should be too.”

                She smiled again, knowing she had won.

                “But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye on him!”

               

* * *

 

 

                They were just outside of camp, practicing their battlefield maneuvers. Zevran was teaching Tabris how to work her way behind an opponent to get in a solid backstab before they were able to catch her. She was settling into the motions, and now they were taking it in bouts, each trying to outmaneuver the other. She was even smaller than he was, and a little quicker, which gave her a slight advantage in spite of her lack of experience. She’d won the last few rounds, and was starting to let her guard down. Maybe that was why he managed to get the upper hand on her so quickly.

                He was behind her in an instant, before she could react. His right hand dagger rested immediately below the pounding artery in her neck, his other blade held firmly against her hip.

                “Alright, you win. Let’s go again,” she panted, waiting for him to drop his blades so they could start over. Instead, he reached his left arm around her waist and pulled her tight against him. His breath was hot against her neck, and he spoke directly into her ear in a rough half-whisper.

                “Or, we could try something new, warden.” He pressed his lips against her neck in a heated kiss, not waiting for a response.

                Immediately, all she could think of was her wedding, and being dragged away by Vaughan and his guards. Waking on the cold floor of the arl’s estate. The rough, frenzied hands of the guards, reaching for her, pressing her to the wall, grabbing at her. Jeering voices, clumsy fingers, hot breath on her skin. All she could think of was getting away, getting out.

                She cried out something wordless and threw her arms in front of her, trying to push Zevran’s arms and daggers away from her as she ran. The blade at her neck caught her shoulder and she twisted, falling to the ground.

                “Tabris, what is it?” Zevran asked, dropping his weapons. He did not move toward her but instead knelt down to look her in the eye. Her eyes were wild, panicked, and she did not take them off of him.

                “Don’t do that! Why would you do that?” She was shivering and the words were coming out too fast.

                “I thought you were interested, warden,” Zevran said, torn between being offended and wanting to help. “Did I misjudge?”

                “Yes!” She spat. She was shaking hard now and tears were threatening to fall. _Don’t cry_ , she thought bitterly, hating herself as she shivered in the dirt. She didn’t want any of them to think she was weak, especially not Zevran, especially not an elf who knew the value of a thick skin.

                “I’m sorry,” Zevran said immediately. “I did not mean to overstep. Let me help you,” he said, extending a hand toward her, watching the blood flow from the fresh cut on her shoulder.

                “No!” She shouted, moving to scoot away from him. She caught herself, tried to get in a few deep breaths. “No, please. Just leave me alone.” The tears were so close now, she just wanted him gone.

                “As you wish,” he said, standing up and collecting his daggers. “I’m sorry, Grey Warden.” He turned his back on her and started toward camp. She held in her tears until he disappeared.

 

* * *

 

 

                Alistair often found a way to get himself on watch on the evenings when Tabris and Zevran were practicing. Tonight was no exception, but it was the first time he saw Zevran return alone, looking upset. Alistair watched him go straight to his tent and disappear inside without a word.

                Nervously, Alistair glanced toward the forest in the direction Zevran had come from. He imagined Tabris would be back right behind Zevran. After all, Tabris trusted the elf. Why shouldn’t Alistair? _I’ll wait a minute_ , he thought, _and then I’ll go looking if she’s not back yet_. For all the time he’d spent imagining the ways this could go wrong, he’d never actually planned out what he might do if it did.

                A minute passed. Alistair pictured how angry Tabris would be if she was fine and he came rushing to her rescue over some imagined conflict. _I’ll wait two minutes,_ he thought. _Or five._ But he kept his eyes on the forest, and he remained standing, ready to jump into action. As soon as he decided what that action would be. Across camp, Zevran’s tent was silent.

                Ten minutes later, Tabris returned to camp, keeping her face turned down and making a beeline for her tent. Her clothes were sodden and dirty where she’d fallen in the forest, and her eyes were red.

                “Tabris?” Alistair called, catching up to her beside her tent. “Are you alright?”

                She turned to face him, her body tense. She kept her eyes on the ground. “I’m fine. I’m just going to bed.” Her voice was strained, daring him to interfere, daring him to question her, hoping he would know better than to try.

                “What happened to your shoulder?” He asked, just noticing the blood flowing openly through a gash in her tunic. She was silent, still not meeting his eyes. “Are you alright?” He asked again.

                “I’m fine,” she repeated. “It’s not deep, I just need to bandage it up. Goodnight, Alistair.” She turned without waiting for a response and opened her tent.

                “Was it Zevran?”

                “It was my fault,” she said, getting angry now. “I made a mistake; I ran into his knife.” It wasn’t exactly untrue. “Goodnight, Alistair,” she said more firmly this time, and disappeared into her tent.

                She was gone before he could press further. Not knowing what else to do, he returned to sit by the fire, keeping an eye on Zevran’s tent just in case. A minute later he heard footsteps and turned to see Tabris walking cautiously toward him. He jumped to his feet, unsure what to say.

                “I’m out of bandages,” she mumbled. “Do you have—“

                “Yeah, I’ve got loads,” he said, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Let me get you some.” And he went to fetch them from his pack, feeling suddenly very useful. When he brought them back to her, she reached for them, but he held on.

                “That looks like it’ll be hard to bandage on your own,” he nodded toward her shoulder. “Can I help you? I promise I’ll be gentle.” He smiled disarmingly. She still looked miserable, but quirked a tiny smile at his earnestness. After a moment, she nodded, just a little.

                “Okay, come here,” he said, gesturing toward the fire. She sat cross-legged in front of him and pulled back the neck of her tunic to expose her shoulder, still staring intently at the ground. Without saying anything, he got to work wiping the blood from her shoulder and staunching the flow. It was a long cut, but not deep enough to do much harm. He felt a blush rising in his cheeks as he worked so close to her, touching her skin, and soon he was avoiding her eyes as much as she avoided his.

                “Okay,” he said eventually, “I’m going to put some elfroot on it now, it’s going to sting.” He waited for her to nod in acknowledgement before he continued. She was quiet as he pressed the mashed leaves into her wound, though she shut her eyes.

                When he pressed the last corner of the bandage to her skin, he patted it gently and sat back on his heels. He tried to find something to say, but found himself falling short.

                “It’s all finished,” he stuttered eventually. “I’m not exactly a healer, but that should keep it from getting nasty.”

                “Thank you,” she said, and finally met his eyes with a weak smile. “Goodnight, Alistair.” She raised herself to unsteady feet and turned to go to her tent.

                “Tabris,” he called after a moment. She paused, and half turned toward him. “What really happened?”

                She stiffened. “I didn’t lie, Alistair. I ran into his knife. It was a mistake.”

                “I’m not calling you a liar, Tabris, but if we have reason to not trust him I think you should tell me.”

                “We don’t have any reason to distrust him. It was my mistake.” She turned, and walked the remaining steps to her tent. She disappeared inside before he could think of anything else to say.

 

* * *

 

 

                At breakfast the next morning Tabris sat apart from both Alistair and Zevran, settling herself next to her mabari. Alistair caught Zevran glancing at the bandage on her shoulder and shot him a look which he hoped read as thinly veiled distrust and anger but instead probably came across as vaguely confused. Tabris didn’t speak at all through breakfast, but by the time they were packing up camp and heading on their way she was conversing animatedly with Leliana as if nothing had happened.

                They encountered wolves on their path, and Tabris pulled her daggers to fight. She kept herself close to Zevran and together they flanked their enemies. He smiled at her when they brought down the meanest one, and without thinking, she smiled back. She let him walk next to her in the afternoon, and listened while he told her about the brothel he grew up in.

                When they stopped next to set up camp, she didn’t ask Zevran for dagger practices, and he didn’t push it. Instead, she went with Leliana to bathe in the nearby stream. She returned with damp hair, crossing the camp barefoot in a loose nightshirt. Alistair, alone at the fire, tried not to look.

                She came up beside him a moment later. He looked up to see her holding bandages.

                “It needs redoing,” she said, by way of explanation. Matter-of-factly. All business. “Could you help me again?”

                He nodded, trying not to seem overeager. She settled herself next to him at the fire, and he got to work. It was quicker this time now that the wound had started to heal, but it was also already well past darkness after a long day of travel and fighting. Tabris’s eyes were drifting closed as she sat beside the fire.

                “Ah!” she hissed suddenly, sitting bolt upright and pulling away from Alistair’s working hands. Her shoulder was stinging bitterly.

                “Sorry, sorry!” He sputtered. “Elfroot, I forgot to warn you!”

                She relaxed, laughing a little, and leaned forward to let him continue. Her forehead came to rest against Alistair’s shoulder. She didn’t move away, and neither did he. She pressed a little closer, her cheek against his chest, angling her head so that she could watch him work. “Got to keep my eyes on you,” she mumbled softly, and he smiled.

                When he finished, she made no move to back away from him. Unsure what to do, he reached up a hand to the back of her head and stroked her hair, gently, twice. It was a comforting gesture, and Tabris hummed softly in response.

                “Right then,” he said, folding his hands back in his lap as she sat up. “Let’s get back to what we were up to.”

                “Right,” she said, smiling a small sleepy smile at him as she stood up. “Goodnight, Alistair.”

                “Goodnight, Tabris.”

                The next morning, she pulled him aside as they were breaking camp and gave him the amulet she’d found in Arl Eamon’s study a few days before. He stuttered something wildly appreciative, and she half-mumbled something about how he was special to her.

                A few days later, he got up the nerve to give her a rose he’d had since Lothering. She began to think that maybe not all humans were like Vaughan Kendells, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

                She’d stopped having dagger practices with Zevran entirely, but they still sat together sometimes and exchanged stories of her alienage and his Antiva. Neither of them mentioned that night in the forest, and her shoulder healed neatly with only a faint scar.

                They returned to Denerim for the landsmeet to find the alienage still sealed off to outsiders. Eamon confided in Tabris that the guards had said it would be open again in a few days, but if anything that made her worry more. While the gates were closed, she had no proof that anyone inside was dead. She could pretend all her friends and family were still fine. When Zevran stopped asking for alienage stories, Tabris assumed it was to spare her feelings.

                While searching the arl’s estate for hints at Loghain’s plots, they encountered a hall of portraits. There hung a portrait obviously newer than the others, of a face she recognized from her nightmares. VAUGHAN KENDELLS, read the frame, SON OF ARL URIEN KENDELLS. SLAIN IN AN ELVEN UPRISING. She lingered by the portrait a moment, long enough for her companions to question it. She shook her head dismissively, told them to keep going, and when they turned their backs she pulled a dagger and slit the portrait in half, top to bottom.

                That night, deep in her ale, she told them that she was a one-woman uprising. No one argued, but none of them really understood, either. Zevran alone watched knowingly from across the table. He said nothing in response.

 

* * *

 

 

                Eamon had them out hunting for clues to Loghain’s treachery, again. It had been a long and fruitless day, and Tabris and her companions slogged through the back alleys of Denerim without speaking. They turned the corner to find a stranger staring down at them from the top of a staircase, looking eagerly at Tabris.

                “And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last,” he called. “The Crows send their greetings, once again.” Tabris heard the faint rasping of chainmail as Alistair, beside her, reached for his sword. Cautiously, Tabris placed a hand on the hilt of her dagger.

                “And where is Zevran?” The stranger asked, looking at each of them in turn, his hand drifting slowly toward his own weapon.

                “Here I am, Taliesen,” said Zevran, stepping forward. “Tell me, were you sent? Or did you volunteer for the job?”

                “I volunteered, of course. When I heard you had gone rogue, I had to see it for myself.”

                “Is that so? Well, here I am, in the flesh.” Tabris relaxed, just a little, imagining Zevran would deal with this intrusion and they would be on their way. The assassin was nothing more to her than another inconvenience, and not even the worst they’d encountered that day.

                “You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this. Anyone can make a mistake. We’ll make up a story.” Taliesen spoke reassuringly, comfortingly, promising a safe return to a life with the Crows. Zevran stood in silence.

                “Of course, I’d need to be dead, first,” Tabris muttered under her breath to Zevran.

                “That’s true,” Zevran said, louder, loud enough for Taliesen to hear. “You would need to be dead.”

                “Ha! Now there is the Zevran I remember!”

                “I am no fool, old friend. You know me too well. I’m glad it was you who came. As for you, warden…let us see what I can do with my second chance, hm?”

                She stared back at him, imagining it was a joke. Assassins swarmed from all sides and she pulled her longbow from her back, striking them down as they flooded from the alleys like vermin. She knew he would be right behind her, dueling his own opponents, covering her. The instant she had a reprieve, Tabris glanced over her shoulder at where Zevran had been standing.

                He wasn’t fighting the assassins. He was drawing his blades, slowly and thoughtfully, his jaw set in a tight line. In an instant, he was behind her; he had outmaneuvered her like he did so many times in their little practices, only this time his blades were so much closer to her skin.

                “I am sorry, warden.” His voice, so close to her ear, was calm. He did not sound apologetic. He held her arm trapped behind her back, forcing her to drop her longbow. She realized now that in all the times he had showed her how to pin an opponent in this same way, he had never taught her how to escape. Her pulse thrummed steadily in her ears, she could barely hear the raging battle around them; in her mind only one word sounded on repeat, _whywhywhywhywhy,_ alternately pleading and disbelieving and angry as Zevran’s blade inched ever closer to her throat.

                There was a cry followed by thudding footsteps to her left. Unable to turn her head, Tabris glanced sideways to see Alistair charging at them, shield first. He bashed Zevran with enough force to send him flying; Tabris, caught in Zevran’s arms, went tumbling as well, but shook herself free.

                To one side, she saw Zevran—Zevran the only other elf, Zevran who sat on watch with her through long cold nights, Zevran who laughed at the stories of her cousins, Zevran who knew her secrets—and he was pushing himself to his feet with cold hard eyes, a Crow through and through. To her other side, she saw her longbow, fallen on the cobbles an arm’s length away.

                She’d always favored the longbow.

                Zevran raised his daggers. His breathing was calm and even, and he smiled like a knife, and then he leapt into motion. Alistair reflexively raised his shield and sword. Zevran reached out to strike, and that was when the arrow caught him neatly through the throat. His face changed inscrutably as he tumbled backward, his daggers clanging to the ground; he heaved a few rasping, wet breaths—Maker, they were so loud, it was all she could hear—and then he lay still.

                Tabris lowered her longbow as around her, her companions finished off the few remaining assassins. One by one, they sheathed their weapons and turned to see her standing, staring at Zevran’s body from a distance. Her body language revealed nothing; she simply stared, her face blank. In her head, her pulse still raced; the voice in her head had gone silent, and all she heard was the emptiness where Zevran’s breathing had been.

                Alistair walked over to her first, placing a hand on her shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something, got as far as “Tabris,” and then decided better of it. Zevran still lay motionless, his amber eyes open to the sky, the arrow sticking out of his throat. There was very little blood; Tabris caught herself feeling relieved. She opened her mouth to say something, to tell them they should keep going, but nothing came out. She closed it again.

                “Maybe we should call it a night and head back,” Wynne said, cautiously, from behind her. Not trusting her voice, Tabris nodded forcefully, and started walking in the direction of Eamon’s estate.

                As she passed Zevran’s body, she tried not to look down. Unthinking, she reached out a hand to retrieve her arrow from his throat.  In the process, she turned her head just a little and saw his face, up close, frozen in death and contorted in an unrecognizable expression. Vaguely, she thought of Nelaros, lying on the cold cobbles of the arl’s castle, his throat gaping. She realized she had paused, was staring, and turned to see her companions looking at her curiously.

“I expected more blood,” she said, her voice sounding weak and pathetic in her own ears.

                She left the arrow, and quickened her pace. The others followed in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

                Dinner was solemn; nobody ate much. Oghren, already drunk, was railing against Zevran, with the occasional encouragement from Leliana and Morrigan. They were angry, and celebrating Zevran’s death eased the pain of his betrayal. But Tabris wasn’t angry, not yet; she felt numb. Once Oghren started inventing new and unusual insults, Tabris excused herself quietly from the table and went to her room.

                Moments later, there was a careful knock on the door.

                “Come in,” she called softly from where she sat on the edge of the bed.

                “Um, yes, listen, I can’t—I’ve got—Tabris, could you open the door?” came Alistair’s voice, sounding harried and embarrassed, from the other side of the door. She stood, and opened the door to let him in, and he nearly bowled her over. “Shut it, shut it!” He urged her as soon as he was through; she did.

                “That mabari of yours wanted to share,” he explained, and that was when she realized he was holding what looked like half the estate’s pantry in his arms. She heard a soft whimper from the hallway before her dog padded away in search of other food. “You didn’t eat at dinner,” Alistair added, “and I’ve never known you to be short on appetite.” He raised an eyebrow mockingly.

                She didn’t rise to the bait, instead thanking him halfheartedly and returning to sit on the edge of the bed. Alistair frowned and settled the plates of food on a desk before taking a place at her side.

                “So, listen,” he started, hesitantly. “I’m…really sorry about Zevran. I know he was your friend.” She didn’t respond, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry he did that to you. And I’m sorry you…had to kill him.”

                Tabris nodded slowly. She had nothing to say and instead leaned into Alistair’s side. He draped an arm over her shoulders, reaching up to stroke her hair. They sat in silence for a long while. Eventually, he heard her breathing hitch, and looked over to see the tears start to fall.

                Tabris had never cried in front of any of her companions, least of all Alistair. In the alienage, the guards liked to beat the ones who cried, had competitions to see who could spring tears the fastest. Tabris learned to hold her tears out of spite, no matter how hard they struck her; eventually the guards gave up and left in humiliation, and despite the bruises and blood she got to feel that she had won. But now the tears were falling, here in a quiet room in an arl’s estate in the city, and she couldn’t hold it in, and Alistair didn’t seem to judge her for it. He hummed soothingly and turned to face her, pulling her into his lap and against his chest. She let him.

                “I know, Tabris,” he mumbled into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry.” Her breath caught again and she only sobbed harder; it was embarrassing in every way, and still he held her tight against him, mumbling soothing words and pressing feather-light kisses to the crown of her head.

                Eventually she found words, and they fell out of her in between hiccups and sniffles, questions of _how could he_ and _why did he make me_ and frenzied _maybe if I had_ , one after the other. Alistair nodded along, offered small agreements and reassurances and sometimes only silence when it was fitting. Then she went quiet too, and her breathing evened out, and finally she rubbed her eyes and her hands came away dry.

                That was when she stood up and reached for a sweet roll Alistair had set on the desk. He smiled at her, knowingly, teasing her without saying anything, and she chewed a little louder in his direction, out of spite.

 

* * *

 

 

                They’d been sleeping together since coming aground after Orzammar. Alistair had thought the open blue sky after all those weeks underground was the most beautiful thing in the world, but then he’d convinced her to get out of her armor in his tent and, well, he didn’t mind being wrong on that one. Even now, a month later in Denerim, lying next to her in bed, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The alienage gates had been opened earlier that day, and Tabris had swept in to find her cousins alive and rescue her father from Tevinter slavers. In relief and exhaustion, she’d fallen easily into bed with him that evening, and was slow to get up and return to her own chambers to avoid any raised suspicions. They lay together, tangled in the bedcovers, with the late evening sun streaming through the window behind them. It was summer, finally.

                Alistair was tracing a finger lazily over the sharp lines of her collarbone when he remembered it. The faint raised line of her old scar caught his fingertip. He rubbed it absentmindedly for a moment, thinking. Tabris looked down to see what had caught his attention, and then looked at him, waiting.

                “How did it happen?” He finally asked. She closed her eyes, feeling the summer sun on her skin, the heat of the bedsheets wrapped around her legs. Summer in Ferelden was barely warmer than winter in a lot of places, but she’d had enough of the cold.

                She told him, in entirety, about how Zevran gave her the scar. And before he could ask, she told him too about why she’d panicked at Zevran’s advances and about Vaughan Kendells and Nelaros and the way she’d left the alienage for Ostagar. Alistair had never been much good with words and he knew it, but he was coming to realize that he wasn’t half bad when it came to listening in patient silence, and also he had a good handle on making indecipherable but comforting hums and mumbles when she started to cry.

                She got to the end of her story and opened her eyes, glancing over to see him staring back. His face held no judgment. He reached a hand to her cheek and tilted her face fully toward him, and gently, as the sun finally sank, he kissed her.

                Tabris spent the night in Alistair’s chambers that night, not caring what Eamon or his servants would have to say in the morning.


End file.
